The piles of junk and stacks of half finished books have sat long enough to start to stew in their own personalities. The lumpy mass of jackets thrown over the rocking chair has grown to be motherly and comforting, while the torn, faceless book on the nightstand is a jealous cynic.
I was determined to clean, to scour, to renew. I thought I'd feel better then. But I couldn't bring myself to trash memories, so I stored them.
Faces trapped under frames were shut in cardboard tombs, and stacked in the closet. Too far away to keep up, too soon to throw away. In the picture, she's still my best friend. In the picture, he still loves me. In the pictures are the people I know.
As the stacks shrink, the room falls off balance, as though the empty space is yearning for exactly what it's not. The dizziness and distortion are overwhelming, and I sit amidst the personalities of trash, and the ghosts of personalities in pictures, knowing that really, there's nothing there at all.
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